


Amateurs

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amateur Porn AU, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12826.html?thread=66774810#t66774810">this</a> prompt at the kinkmeme:<i> AU wherein John and Sherlock did not meet at Bart's. Instead, they meet in a seedy studio for a bit of gay-for-pay amateur porn. John is doing it because he genuinely, desperately needs money and he'd heard an old army buddy say it paid well for almost nothing; Sherlock's doing it for a case, of course.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Amateurs

John knocks on the door of the grimy flat, apprehension hindering his already stilted motion. He stares in front of him, willing his eyes to focus on small details – the peeling paint of the door, number marking the flat flipped upside down, held on by only one screw – to keep from dwelling on what waits behind the door.

 _I doubt this is something you’ll really do,_ the email from Barnes had said, _but if you’re in need of some quick cash, no taxes, no questions, call the number below. They love army guys, and the website’s pretty obscure so chances are no one will ever know. It’s easy, just a fuck, you forget the camera’s there. Besides, it’s nothing you’ve never done before._

John had rolled his eyes there; he could read the suggestion behind Barnes’ words, the teasing hint to quick handjobs snatched between shifts. He had hardly been John’s first and it had never been serious but they’d both enjoyed themselves. He also remembers Barnes’ casual reference to his illustrious former career in porn – or, as he’d put it, the easiest way to earn beer money he’d ever found. From what John had gathered he’d only done it a few times and been paid handsomely for “the pleasure of a fuck with a fit bloke, and who’s knocking that?”

John had responded, jokily: _fuck off, don’t think I need to sell my body quite yet. We’re not all whores even if you are, you horny bugger._ Yet, three weeks later, with rent due up and naught but pot noodles in the cupboard, he found himself opening the email back up, eyes straying to the copied number at the bottom.

The door opens. The man before him is young, younger than John, blond hair slicked back and polo shirt slightly too large for his gangly limbs. He confirms John’s name then ushers him inside without another word. They pass by the small kitchenette and into the sitting room. The cool afternoon light barely filters through the dusty blinds, giving the room the sombre, depressing air of twilight. In the middle of the room there’s a small table, holding a couple of porn magazines and a heavy glass vase with a single dejected flower. The only equipment is two large lights, one in each corner, and a video camera on a tripod. All face the sofa where another man sits, half reclined and watching John’s entrance through hooded, disinterested eyes.

“Sam, John. John, Sam,” the blond gestures impatiently between them. “You’ll be together for this video.” Right, so, Sam, this tall, dark-haired fellow, was his partner for the afternoon. John looks him over, trying to be surreptitious. Long-limbed and lithe – a tad on the skinny side for John’s taste as he’s developed a liking for hard, whip-strong muscles pushed against his body – and pale even in the fading light, he has a mad crop of dark curls and a languid ease that suggests he’s far more comfortable with the situation than John himself. He wears a snug grey tee and tight, dark jeans, far too little clothing for the chill air outside.

John’s examination must not have been too subtle; as he reaches Sam’s face their eyes meet and Sam delicately raises one eyebrow. John looks away, flushing, then looks back to find Sam shifting in his seat, spreading his legs slightly further in invitation.

The click of a pen behind them draws John’s attention. The blond – John’s not sure if he’s Dave, the guy he talked to on the phone, or not, but he’s the only one around to be in charge – hands them each a single sheet of paper. He explains the legalities, their rights – not many – and the rights of the company toward the footage before asking them to sign. John hesitates, looking at him pointedly, and with a sigh the man produces two envelopes. John’s proves to contain the amount of cash they’d negotiated and, after tucking it into his jacket pocket and tossing his jacket onto the counter, he signs. Sam does the same and soon the blond is gesturing John toward the sofa and moving to turn on the lights.

“Bit of dirty talk, a little noise is good, nothing too weird. Blow jobs at the minimum, fucking’ll get you an extra 200 each. Enjoy yourselves and make sure the camera gets good shots and that’s all I need from you.” He gestures to a box on the floor next to the sofa. “Condoms, lube. And we’ll start.” He moves behind the camera, fiddling with some buttons and gesturing impatiently to the two men.

John looks at Sam, who hasn’t said a word yet; he’s still leaning back into the sofa, but his hands have moved to rest on his knees. He meets John’s gaze, holding it, challengingly. John steps around the table that’s been pushed away from the sofa and takes a seat.

“Well then, let’s get started, shall we?” Sam’s voice is deeper than John expected, a rich thrum that manages to sound bored and deeply suggestive at the same time. John moves towards him on the sofa and, after a long moment, Sam slides his body over until their thighs are just touching. They both lean in, eyes open and just as they tilt their heads so their lips meet, John sees Sam’s gaze slide over to the cameraman.

Sam doesn’t seem nervous, however, just aware. His lips against John’s move with a cool precision, a carefully modulated control. It’s not the machismo-ridden power of a man holding onto his straightness nor the practiced theory of the inexperienced. John should know; he’s fucked both attitudes out of plenty in his time.

With that thought, he takes charge, opening his mouth to lick into Sam’s while moving one hand to cover the other man’s crotch. He feels a slight flicker of a struggle, as if Sam’s body involuntarily resists losing the upper hand, but then he relaxes deliberately, body canting toward John. His cock is soft under John’s hand but he spreads his legs slightly, allowing John more access, which is enough to say he’s interested.

John kisses him deeper, licking into his mouth, and is surprised and pleased to feel Sam suck the tip of his tongue slightly as he reciprocates. John can see Sam’s eyes flicker toward the cameraman every now and then; he himself can feel the camera’s gaze on his back but is astutely ignoring it, keeping his mind on the slim body next to him.

John sits back and unbuttons his cuffs before reaching behind his head to haul his shirt up and off. As he turns his body to toss it to one side he can feel Sam’s eyes on him and when he turns back Sam touches him for the first time.

His fingers – long, slim, and dexterous, John’s mind helpfully supplies – ghost over the dark, gnarled patch of skin at his shoulder. John forces himself not to flinch. He’s not ashamed of the scar – he has plenty, though it’s the ugliest – but this is the first time someone other than a medical professional has touched it. Sam’s fingers curl over his shoulder, his thumb circling the wound and his gaze rapt on John’s body as if analysing and cataloguing. For one brief moment, John feels torn open, as if Sam knows, can read in the scarred flesh the need that thrums in John’s blood, the heady recklessness that had caused its forming.

The moment ends as Sam, with a wicked grin, pulls back to tug his tee shirt over his head, revealing a long, slim expanse of pale flesh, dotted with a few freckles and subtly muscled. He reaches toward John and pulls them forcefully together; John grins against his teeth and thinks perhaps he may not be forgoing brute force today after all.

Sam’s lithe body may not get him far with a seventy-pound pack on his back but his arms are sinewy and strong and placing hands at his hips John feels the shift of tight muscle over bone. His own body is somewhat diminished after months in hospital but he’s swiftly gaining back muscle mass in physical therapy and he knows his compact, tight torso still shows its strength.

As they kiss, Sam runs one hand down John’s shoulder, ghosting his fingertips across one nipple. John moans into his mouth, feeling the warm pressure build in his groin. He strokes up Sam’s arms lightly before burying his fingers in that dark, thick hair. It’s silky in his hands with a prickle where it’s been cropped close at the nape. He tugs slightly and is gratified to feel Sam’s answering pinch on his nipple.

Their bodies press together now; John’s cock under his jeans is hard, straining. He drops his hands to Sam’s waistband, flicking open the button and sliding down the zip. They pulled apart long enough to each wriggle out of their jeans and pants. John drops his clothes to one side and, tucking one knee under him, launches his body toward Sam’s, throwing the other man off balance and landing on top of him.

Their eyes catch, a shared challenge, and John drags his body up, feeling Sam’s growing hardness against his hip. Supporting himself on his elbows, John rocks their hips together, kissing up Sam’s neck and nipping at the skin at the base of his shoulder. Sam grasps John’s arse and pulls them together, grinding his hips so their cocks glide together, bare, hot skin and the wet slide of pre-cum.

Sam’s leg wraps around him as he swings his body up, moving into a seated position with John half-straddling his lap. His head turns and John follows his eyes to catch the cameraman, rapt with lust, one hand in his trousers. John rolls his eyes and grabs Sam’s jaw, bringing their lips back together as he rolls his hips against Sam’s cock. If the camera wants a show, John’s willing to give it.

John disengages, kneeling on the floor between Sam’s spread legs. His cock has filled out, hard, and John fumbles for a condom from the box next to the sofa. Tearing a pack open with his teeth, he rolls the latex down Sam’s cock before grasping the base and covering the head with his mouth, blowing over it, breath hot. Above him, Sam shifts his hips, one hand resting on John’s bare shoulder. John sneaks a look up; the other man’s face is still alert but he meets John’s eyes and winks.

Surprised, John breaths out one quick laugh then, in one smooth movement, swallows Sam down, lips just touching his fist and throat working over the length of Sam’s cock. Sam gives a quick, shuddering breath as John swallows.

Pulling back, he begins to work Sam’s cock in earnest, licking up the length and sucking the head, rolling his balls gently with one hand. He feels validated when Sam’s hand tightens against his shoulder and looks up to see the man’s eyes flicker closed before forcefully snapping open.

Under his tongue he can feel the thrum of blood and firm, warm flesh through the thin latex. Sam’s testicles are beginning to draw up, tighten, and just as John squeezes his fist with a delicate pressure, Sam’s hand in his hair drags him back. Pulling his mouth off with a wet pop, John lets his gaze roam over Sam’s body, taking in the flush of his skin, the hardened nipples, and the loose roll of his neck against the back of the sofa.

Sam takes a deep breath before squaring his shoulders, glance flickering to the camera then back to John. Hands on John’s upper arms, he hauls him up off his knees and onto the sofa, manoeuvring him to recline against one arm. Straddling his hips, Sam wiggles his arse down, trapping John’s cock between his thighs. John bucks against him, earning a quick grin, then grasps Sam’s hips to settle him more firmly against John’s torso.

They grind together like this, Sam giving a bit of a show as he runs one hand up his torso, fingering his own nipples and running his tongue over his lower lip. Behind them, John hears a low gasp from the cameraman as Sam’s eyes gaze over John’s shoulder to where the man stands. He feels a lurch low in his stomach and, grasping Sam behind the head, pulls the man down to him to meet his lips, to centre his attention back where it should be. Sam exhales against his mouth and slides forward so John’s cock slips against his arse, rubbing up his crack.

He hadn’t been sure he’d be okay going this far, wasn’t sure how much he was willing to show, to give of himself, to the cold camera lens. But Sam’s arse rubbing against his cock is far too tempting; the steadiness of his gaze practically a challenge. Sam’s still keeping the camera within view, always aware of its presence, and John wants more than anything to fuck that alertness out of him. Wants to see him shaking with pleasure, here that deep voice beg and cajole, see those unsettling eyes shudder closed.

“I want to fuck you. Let me fuck you.” Sam’s eyes widen slightly, appraisingly. He licks his lower lip, nods, and John grins and surges up to capture his mouth. They kiss intently, with a new ferocity, teeth meeting in an almost painful clash.

With one hand, John reaches again for the small box, pulling out a tube of lube. Flicking it open with his thumb, he flips it deftly and squeezes some onto his fingers before tossing the tube to the floor. Sam shifts, tucking one calf between John and the back of the sofa, stretching the other out to the floor. The angle both tilts his body toward the camera, displaying his hard cock which twitches up, toward his belly, and opens him up slightly, allowing John’s slick fingers to slide easily between his cheeks.

Sam reaches behind himself, entwining his fingers with John’s to push two, then three, slowly into his body. John bites his lip to hold in a gasp at the tight heat of Sam’s hole and the tension in those long fingers twisting with his. Following Sam’s guidance, John fucks into him with firm, precise strokes. Sam pulls out his hand and nods to John, who deftly rolls on a condom and lines himself up.

He sinks slowly into Sam, who rocks his hips down gradually, pulling John in. Their eyes meet, Sam’s wide, dark pupils nearly obliterating the stormy grey of his irises. When John’s fully inside, Sam pauses, settled on John’s lap, before rocking forward.

John fucks up into him, hands grasping at the other man’s thighs as Sam rolls his pelvis, intently watching John’s face. Inside, Sam is tight and hot and his occasional low moans send a vibration through his body that John feels across every inch of his skin. John begins to vocalize more as their pace picks up, impending orgasm sending his mind into nearly incoherent streams of smut.

“Jesus, Sam, like that, god, fuck yes. You’re so fucking tight,” he moans out as Sam’s arse snaps against him. “C’mon, fuck, like that, look at me, fuck you’re gorgeous,” he says as their eyes meet. Sam viciously twists one nipple when John takes his cock in hand, stroking and revelling in the feeling of Sam tightening around him. Sam pounds against him, harder, as John’s body races toward the edge, muscles tightening, head thrown back, and hands useless at his sides, grasping for leverage.

“Fuck, fuck, Sam, I’m going, I’m going to –” John gasps as Sam pulls off of him, half-crouching on the floor to grasp John’s cock, pulling the condom off and pumping him the last few times needed before John arches up into his hand, head thrown back and gasping as he climaxes, semen spilling over Sam’s hand and up John’s belly.

He’s barely fallen back onto the couch, boneless with pleasure, when he registers Sam fairly springing off the floor, throwing out one hand to grab the heavy vase off the table and throwing it toward the cameraman who, John realizes, is pointing a gun directly at him.

The vase smashes against the gunman’s hand and he cries out, dropping his hand but holding firm to the weapon. John pulls his legs under him and with one firm shove against the arm of the sofa, launches himself up, following Sam’s own motion toward the cameraman. In a messy tangle of naked limbs, the two men tackle the third to the ground, Sam throwing a punch to his jaw while John wrestles the gun out of his hand.

John gets the weapon away and with a sweep of his arm smashes the butt of the gun against the man’s temple, knocking him out. With a huff that’s half exhale, half laugh, he sits back on his heels, his hands unloading the handgun automatically.

He turns, grin slightly manic, toward Sam. Sam, who is staring at him, eyes wide with unbridled fascination. Sam, who breathes out a slight _oh_ as if he’s found something entirely new, as if despite himself, he’s surprised. For the first time in their brief acquaintance, his attention is unwaveringly on John; it’s not exactly how John expected to get it, but the man’s hungry gaze still makes him shiver slightly.

“So,” John says, nonchalantly, “what the fuck was that all about?” Sam laughs and rises to his feet. He’s still naked, and _christ,_ still hard, cock flushed and bobbing up with each stride of his long limbs as he paces the room, peering closely at the equipment.

“Serial killer.”

“Serial…?” John glances back toward the unconscious man, his skinny body seeming fragile curled on the floor. He stands himself, setting the unloaded gun and clip on the counter and looking for some rope or twine for the shooter’s hands.

Sam’s pulled on a pair of gloves – from where, John’s not sure – and is clicking through the footage on the camera. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Four men, two pairs, were found dead, clearly post-coital. They were shot just after the moment of climax.”

“Just after?” John knows he’s echoing Sam, but he thinks of himself, limp and unaware after his orgasm and shudders. “Fuck.” He glances at Sam, who is frowning as he paws through the camera case. “Er. Thanks, then. For saving my life, I suppose.”

Sam looked up at him, one eyebrow flicking up almost imperceptibly. “Of course.”

“How’d you know it was him?”

“Tracked each man back to this particular website. This is the fourth cameraman I’ve tried to catch out.”

“You’ve done this three times before?”

“In the last two days, yes.” John can’t help it; for some reason, the thought of this lanky, naked man having sex with multiple men, each time paying more attention to the cameraman than his partner, is borderline absurd. He begins laughing, leaning over to support his hands on his knees.

Sam looks sharply at him. “I just wanted a couple hundred quid.” His giggle sounds slightly hysterical even his ears. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sam chuckled in that same deep tone as his voice. “I very much doubt that, doctor.” Their eyes meet again and John’s laugh is abruptly cut off at the heat in the other man’s eyes. John’s about to take a step toward him when a phone chimes somewhere within the pile of Sam’s clothes.

The other man strides across the room, rifling through his jeans to pull out his mobile. He checks it then fires off a quick text. “Police’ll be here shortly. You may want to get dressed.” His gaze roves up John’s body; John feels himself flushing slightly despite himself.

After the police take control of the scene and take the shooter into custody, John is approached by a bright-eyed young sergeant to take his statement. He gives her the bare-bones version of the story but can’t help how his eyes slide over to where Sam stands, arguing with a grey-haired Inspector. The sergeant’s eyes follow his and she scoffs a bit.

“So, at what _precise_ moment did you realize he had a gun?” She looks at him, wide-eyed and innocent, and John flushes slightly, averting his gaze.

“Well, Sam realized first. I was, er, I was a bit distracted.”

“Sam? Oh, Sherlock.” _Sherlock?_ No wonder he’d used a fake name. “Jesus, I can’t imagine anyone tuning Sherlock out long enough to enjoy themselves.”

“Oh, Sally, I can be surprisingly pliant if given the right _incentive_ ,” Sam’s – Sherlock’s voice, low and suggestive, rumbles from their left as the man makes his way toward them.

Sally scoffs. “What, like someone dangling a severed limb over you in the moment?”

“You seem to think an awful lot about my sexual proclivities, Sally.”

She flushes a bit but narrows her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, freak.” She ignores Sherlock and turns back to John. “We may need you to come into the station to give a formal statement. Can I get your full contact details, Mr Watson, was it?”

“Doctor Watson, I think you’ll find,” Sherlock interrupts. John raises an eyebrow at him but nods.

“That’s right.” He gives her his mobile number and the address of his dingy bedsit.

She’s scribbling down his details. “Employment?”

John flushes, glancing sidelong at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes. “Really, Sally, why precisely do you think Dr Watson was here? He’s recently invalided home from – Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan…how did you?” Sherlock merely shrugs then grasps his elbow to draw him away.

“Sally, surely you’re done here. I’m sure the good Doctor will be happy to come in if you have any further questions.” Sally glares but gestures them off and turns to walk back toward the grey-haired DI.

Pulling himself away from Sherlock’s grip and squaring his shoulders, John raises one eyebrow. “Not exactly what I expected when I came here this morning.”

Sherlock snorts half a laugh, slightly taken aback by John’s nonchalance. “So, John, you seem a handy man to have around in a fight.”

John shrugged one shoulder. “And you, _Sherlock,_ seem to go looking for trouble.” Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly, showing a flicker of pleasure. He holds out one long-fingered hand and John takes it. It’s still slightly tacky with lube and the grasp is firm.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“John Watson. Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes.” John holds his hand fast; he’s not sure why except the heat of the man’s hand, fingers wrapped around his palm, sends a thrill right to his groin.

“Sherlock, please.”

“Well, then, Sherlock,” John pulls the man closer to him, “I don’t think we quite finished what we started upstairs.” He steps towards him and brings their lips together, releasing his hand to grasp at slim hips, brushing the sliver of pale skin exposed between his tight, low-slung jeans and the soft cotton of his tee. Sherlock makes a noise of pleasure under his mouth and John breaks away, tugging him toward the small alley between the flat blocks.

With one firm shove against Sherlock’s chest, John pins him against the brick wall, pressing their bodies together. He feels Sherlock’s cock, rising to hardness again, against his stomach. Fumbling between them, Sherlock unzips his fly then grasps John’s wrist to shove his hand into his pants. In his grip John feels that hidden wiry strength and briefly imagines what it’d be like to have both wrists held in those long fingers, arms forced above his head, Sherlock pressing into him firmly.

Under his palm, Sherlock’s cock twitches and John’s brought back to reality. Shoving down those tight jeans and dark boxers – just enough that Sherlock’s bare, reddened arse is pressed against the cold, rough brick – he takes Sherlock’s cock firmly in hand, stroking up its length.

Sherlock’s mouth moves against his temple, a press of lips to his close-cropped hair. John tilts his face up and meets the other man’s mouth, sucking his bottom lip as he strokes his cock. Sherlock’s hips rock up to meet his fist, one hand pressed against the wall behind him, the other fisted in John’s jacket at his injured shoulder. John thumbs firmly over the head of his cock and feels Sherlock’s breath stutter against his mouth. He repeats the action and Sherlock gasps, thrusting as he comes, spurting against John’s stomach and twisting John’s jacket under his hand.

They fall back, together, Sherlock against the wall and John against Sherlock. Huffing out a half-breathless laugh in John’s ear, Sherlock smiles. “You’re a very persistent man, John Watson.”

John captures his mouth, kissing him breathless before pulling away with a nip to his lower lip. “You’re very difficult to resist, I find.” They smile together before Sherlock lets his head fall back against the brick, fumbling to pull his pants and jeans up. John looks down at his shirt, smeared with come. “Oh, christ.” He zips his jacket up gingerly to hide the stain.

“I have an excellent dry cleaner that can take care of that for you.” Sherlock slips effortlessly back into his calm, haughty demeanour. John’s never seen anyone look so arrogant while tucking their cock back into their trousers.

“Of course you do, you poncy git.” John finds himself grinning, fondly, and Sherlock smiles back, holding his gaze for a moment as if pondering something.

Sherlock turns and begins to walk out of the alley, John at his side. “So, John, I’ve got my eye on a cosy flatshare in central London. Together we should be able to afford it, even without any sex work to supplement your pension. Interested?”

John finds himself looking up at Sherlock, catching his profile in the early evening sun. Sherlock’s steadily not looking at him, lips set and sloe-eyes facing front. “Could be,” he answers, nonchalantly, and sees the corner of that mouth twitch up.


End file.
